


I wanna walk tall knowing that I'm owning you

by girlsarewolves



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Biting, Come Marking, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Dirty Thoughts, F/M, Fantasy Sex, Hatesex, Masturbation, Obsession, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Wall Sex, dirtybadwrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-05 02:23:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17910176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/pseuds/girlsarewolves
Summary: Sometimes those you hate, you also wind up fantasizing about fornicating with. Lex Luthor Jr. would know.





	I wanna walk tall knowing that I'm owning you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheYearOfTheWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheYearOfTheWolf/gifts).



  

They're in his house.

 

They're in his hallway.

 

They're up against the wall.

 

A long, keening moan breaks through the litany of gasps and the rustling of fabric, her hips still jerking as he rises up from his knees before her - like a wicked sinner before his savior - to stand, hips pivoting forward to press between her legs. She's smeared thick over his lips and chin and jaw, a slick and slimy layer, the smell of her potent and clinging to his skin - he hates how sickly sweet she tastes.

 

Like truth, justice, and the American way. 

 

That's how he imagines she tastes, anyway. That's what he imagines smelling, tasting, feeling as spit-lubed fingers stroke his cock, hard and eager before he even started thanks to the stupid smiling image of her on the news over saving, who even knows, a bunny for all he can remember beyond that bright as the sun grin he wants to slap off her face.

 

The resounding smack of his hand on her cheek is punctuating only by her practically snarling, grabbing his hand and biting down on the pulse racing through his wrist while his fingers sting from the impact. The almost imperceptible turn of her head from the blow was all she gave him, just enough to keep him from breaking anything - and he isn't sure if he prefers the idea that she did that to keep from having to stop, or because she can't consciously be that vindictive even to him. 

 

Not when physical harm is the consequence.

 

Part of him wishes she would. He'd love to see that - experience that. He's seen the Red Kryptonite footage and it is _glorious_. Terrifying, arousing, everything he sees in her and her cousin and _better_ and so much _worse_. It made his skin crawl, something twist inside his gut, almost to the verge of nausea, and still part of him wants her to look at him with that smug indifference, that world-conquering grin, ready to pry him open so that all his dirty secrets and evil villain schemes spill out. There's been a few times he's made a sticky mess of himself over the thought of her smashing her way in and forcing his mouth to her cunt, or invading every orifice with her fingers and tongue, until she has him confessing like a guilt-ridden altar boy.

 

But not tonight.

 

Tonight they're against the wall.

 

Tonight she's all decked out in red and blue, skirt bunched around her hips - and he thinks they'll stay there for the whole round, until he's about to burst, so he can pull out and finish on her cape. Fuck, he can't stop his hips from bucking at that thought, pre-come already beading on his tip at the mental image of strings of his come shooting out and dripping down the fabric, white on red. He tells himself to calm down, he's not _there_ yet, doesn't _want_ to be there yet.

 

No, right now he's only just standing between her legs, her come half-dried across his face.

 

She's shaky, only a little, and wrapping one leg around him to pull him flush against her.

 

How did they wind up there? It doesn't matter. He doesn't bother with pesky details of build up and logic. He's tongue-fucked her, slapped her, felt the sweet sting of it on his hand only to be followed by the delicious pain of her carefully biting down on his wrist. That's where he is.

 

They've got a ways to go.

 

Warm fingers that could break him wrap around his cock - it's not his fingers there anymore, it's hers, _oh **fuck**_ , he swears he doesn't want to come yet but it wouldn't take much - and she squeezes, just enough that the pressure makes him flinch and bite down on his own lip. She almost smirks, is almost self-satisfied, but the reality of the situation sinks in then, he can see it in the way her face falls, how her eyes dart around, suddenly unable to meet his.

 

This is wrong, she must be thinking.

 

He bites his lip again - bites down on the nape of her neck, rocking his hips into her loosening fingers, groans when they tighten again, enough that it's firm and snug but he can still fuck wantonly into her hand. It's delicious, the friction, her fingers smearing his pre-come over his length, and he bites down harder, wishing he could draw blood, at least bruise - wants the whole damn world to see the filthy things she lets him do to her. He wants the physical, visual proof of it, wants this to be _real_ , damn it. 

 

"Let me in," he whispers. He wants her to give permission, wants her to know he's waiting for the okay, wants her to have to consent, ask for it, beg for it, openly want it, want him fucking her, his cock inside her, his fingers and mouth invasive and greedy - and her admitting that she needs it.

 

A tiny whimper, her breath hitching in her throat, and she nods.

 

"Say it, Supergirl," he groans, louder than he means to, but it doesn't matter because nobody else is there. Nobody else will hear him, hear the blasphemy on his lips, the heresy he's demanding of hers.

 

" _Fuck me!_ " she hisses, and the leg wrapped around his hips pin him almost painfully tight to her body, her delightful grip on his cock nearly torturous as she presses him to that cherry red center dripping with fresh slick. "Fuck me, Luthor, fuck me hard - if you actually _can_ ," she whispers, leaning in so that she can press that cute, little mouth to his ears, her words a challenge and an insult, her voice husky and unrecognizable from the cutesy, chipper tone she's always using in public. There's contempt in that voice, condescension, disgust, and the thought that it's directed at herself too makes him bite and tug at the flesh of her neck and ear, groaning against the coppery taste of his own blood on his tongue.

 

He gets off on her hate, he can't help it.

 

Who wouldn't love to be the reason a god hates herself?

 

He lets her guide him there, lets her press his leaking tip to her cunt, lets her fingers direct him until he's sinking into the wet squeeze of her - and all he can do is brace his empty hand palm flat against the head board of his bed - and all he can do is brace his hands palms flat against the wall as his hips jerk into her, desperate for the rest of him to be buried in her. 

 

Fingers squeeze too tight, but that's how she'd feel, isn't it? Like she's crushing him, too much for him, too much for any mere mortal to fuck without the constant knowledge that she could render the poor fucker useless, helpless, lifeless if she so wanted.

 

She grips his shirt, material bunched up in her fists against his chest, and kisses him so all her moans get sucked up eagerly by his waiting mouth. 

 

He thrusts, can do nothing else, all thought gone from his mind except fuck, _fuck_ , **_fuck_**. His movements are jerky, frantic, aggressive - he lacks any real rhythm at first, only following want and need. He wants to fuck her so hard she'll be sore when she's out there, flying around, fighting bad guys, taking down all those awful, evil villains. He needs to fuck her until he comes, until he's bursting and can pull out so he spills all over her, makes a mess of her, sullies that ridiculous costume he loves her to wear when they fuck.

 

All he can hear is the harsh sound of their breathing, the rustle of fabric.

 

What would Supergirl do if she could see him now?

 

What would her big, scary cousin do?

 

_Oh._   ** _Fuck_**.

 

Oh, how he hates the way his gut clenches and hips jerk at that thought, the way his balls tighten. He's on the very edge of climax now - he wants to drag this out, wants to fuck her good and raw, the way that can only happen in his own mind, but no, Clark Jo had to come along into his thoughts and ruin it.

 

"You think Kal El would let me do this?" he can't stop himself from whispering, and that's what does them both in - in this delicious fantasy Kara is shocked of course, disgusted and disturbed and screaming his name as her body shakes, cunt clenching tight around him, almost too tight for him to pull out so he can paint white streaks over her red cape like he'd wanted. Oh, he knows this would never happen and if it did that would never fly. That's the beauty of fucking yourself - anything goes. You get whatever you want. He likes it that way - and he never, ever wishes he could get a taste of the real thing.

 

Oh, no, he'd never dare such blasphemy.

 

Except he's an awful, evil villain, coming all over his own hand and wishing it was on her, on him, wishing they would do the same.

 

He lays there dazed for some time - he isn't sure how long before his erratic breathing calms, his heart no longer deafening in his own ears.

 

Maybe next time it should be Clark.

 

Maybe both.

**Author's Note:**

> written for a friend who, like me, shall remain nameless, because I don't have the heart to drag them publicly. but you know who you are. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> there might be more of these in the future. unfortunately I've got a lot of thoughts about Lex's dirty thoughts regarding Kryptonians.
> 
> ETA: finally decided to come clean, so to speak, with this fic and de-anon. This was written for **theyearofthewolf** , who I will now gift it to, because I'm dragging him down with me. I have no excuse other than somehow a joke crack-crossover ship because a guilty, _guilty_ pleasure crack-crossover ship and, viola. This filth came about. There may be more filth.


End file.
